I’ve never been a baby dyke before…

I’ve never been a baby dyke before.

I guess high school was the last time I felt like this? Why does this make me so angry?

I’ve spent the last few days surrounded by older, wiser lesbians. Married, partnered, experienced, property-owning dykes. I thought that this was me, but now I realize it’s quite the opposite. Compared to these ladies, I’m getting ready to celebrate my 10th birthday, I haven’t had my period yet, and I’m a virgin.

What they don’t know won’t kill them, but boy is it killing me.

It kills me that they don’t think I’ve lived, that I’ve suffered. Maybe they don’t care. They think my life is easy, my body quick and agile. They think my heart is fresh, my mind sharp, and my daydreams innocent. If I protest too much, then I doth. If I tell them what’s happened to me, fully, they would think I was asking for pity. I’m not sure why I care, but so shoot me; I’m a baby dyke, and I give way too many fucks about what everyone thinks of me.

I’ve always cared way, way too much about what people think of me. I think women are culturally conditioned to give 102% too many fucks. I also perform for a living, so IN MY DEFENSE I keep my lights on in part because of what people think of me. Their like or dislike of what I do, and it translates directly to dollars and cents. I’m working on focusing on myself; hence the blog.

Maybe part of focusing on myself involves accepting what I cannot change. Right now, I can’t seem to change my baby dyke status. I’ve got a young face, it’s the same as my dad’s. He looks 20 years younger than he is, we look like twins.

I feel like a relic, truly ancient. I feel like I have the weight of the whole world on me all the time. My soul has rotted, I’ve become a monument of suffering. I wear it on my face, my shoulders, in my hips. Every step I take, my heels drag, taking a valuable bit of height away from me.

Eye contact is out of the question. When I make eye contact with someone, they know. They see it. They see all of it.

If I make eye contact, they will know. If they know, they might understand. If they understand, they might trivialize. Belittling and I have a fearsome past.

The risks are too great. I have no choice but to stare at the ground. I must shuffle and mumble and mutter. If they heard me, if they saw me, they would know.

Maybe being a baby dyke is a good thing.

This way, they don’t have to know.

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